


Cartographer

by SandrC



Series: Not Another Fanfiction Collection [12]
Category: Not Another D&D Podcast
Genre: M/M, On the Subject of Change, Poetry, Post-Shadowfell, Vampire!Hardwon, Young Love, young gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 04:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandrC/pseuds/SandrC
Summary: I traced a map upon your skinMarked patterns, landscapes, tributariesWhen I last drew your blessed formIt was Pangaea and now is notTectonic plates pushed us apartA fault, though real, is not our ownCartographer is my professionAllow me to chart your heartWhen Erlin next sees Beverly, he is different. It is unsure whether "different" is good or not.





	Cartographer

**Author's Note:**

> Sad Sad. Gay? Gay. Sad gay??? YES
> 
> Hi, my name is Sandr, and I fucking love being sad about young gays in love.
> 
> Insomnia. Insomnia and love.

_I traced a map upon your skin_  
_Marked patterns, landscapes, tributaries_  
_When I last drew your blessed form_  
_It was Pangaea and now is not_  
_Tectonic plates pushed us apart_  
_A fault, though real, is not our own_  
_Cartographer is my profession_  
_Allow me to chart your heart_

* * *

_He looks older._

This is the first thing Erlin thinks when he sees Beverly again:

_He looks older._

Followed by:

_He looks **sad**._

Beverly is wearing dark grey armor, dusty and coated in dried fluids of an _indeterminate_ source. His hair is longer, curls weighed down with dirt and sweat. His face is thinner—not sallow or wan, but longer and more angular. The sword at his hip is a different blade—sharper and humming with an energy that resonates the desire to _save_ —but his hand grips the hilt with practiced ease. His eyes are darkened, tired and _worried_ , with lines creasing his forehead in new ways and dark ash smudged about like hastily applied makeup. They constantly scan the world around him. They never rest.

_He looks **tired**._

_He looks **older**._

_He looks **sad**._

Alongside him, Moonshine and Hardwon are different too, and there's an older halfling with a gun and a sword. The halfling isn't Bev Sr.—he's more _angular_ than the softer man Erlin grew up with, his salt and pepper mustache well-kept but not waxed, in opposition to Bev Sr.'s clean-shaven face and military haircut—but he seems to understand _this isn't his place_ and wanders off and sits down, pulling out a sandwich and chowing down. He seems wholly at ease, which is _odd_ because even Beverly is still alert, eyes searching for some unseen assailant. For some threat he hasn't beaten.

Like some sort of caged animal just set free. Harrowed.

Moonshine is no less kind looking than before. Her face— _also_ caked with grey dirt and blood and streaks of what _might_ be salt lines left behind by tear tracks—is still smiling but it is... _less_. That hurts to see. The _less_ in her smile. And the large possum she carries around with her is _larger_ somehow, more grimy, but no less happy and self-assured than before. She's wearing a pinstripe vest that's barely holding together, well-worn and stitched back, and inside her overall bib is _also a severed hand?!_

Hardwon is _worst_ somehow? He is pale and washed out, dark skin a pasty grey and darker hair a silver that reads as _regal_ instead of _old_. He is leaner and more contorted, curled in over himself as if he wants to disappear. He smiles with his mouth closed and has a large axe at his waist. His eyes are red— _literally_ , crimson instead of whatever color they had been before, not that Erlan can remember, which is... _sad_ somehow—and the bags beneath them are _heavy_ and _dark_. Darker than they _should_ be, it seems, but also... _also_ —? Looking at him feels like looking at a very large animal. A lazy, predatory _thing_. Something that is hungry and isn’t moving because it’s _too much effort._

(It’s weird and he _hates_ it. He liked— _likes_! Present-tense—Hardwon. He doesn’t like feeling _afraid_ and _uneasy_ around him.)

Beverly doesn’t move. There is a long and tenuous pause before Erlin himself is running forward to embrace him. When Erlin's arms wind around Bev’s waist, he feels him tense and is filled with an _inexplicable_ sadness. _He’s forgotten how to **relax**. He’s forgotten how to **feel safe.** I want him to feel safe._ Then Bev wraps his arms around Erlin and pulls him closer. He smells of dust and iron. He smells of salt and fire. He smells of something _foreign_ and Erlin wants to make this smell his home again.

“I missed you,” Erlin whispers. Beverly doesn’t reply. He lets out a low keening sound.

(It’s okay though. He doesn’t _need_ a reply. He just needs him here.)

“I’m glad you’re here,” Erlin adds. Still no reply. He continues, “I’m glad you’re safe. Welcome home.”

Beverly cries.

During this, sometime between Erlin embracing him and Beverly breaking down, Moonshine and the others walk off. Well, the new, older halfling is still sitting off to the side, eating some kind of mayo-drenched sandwich, but he seems to be minding his own business. Moonshine and her possum and severed hand—which is something he will revist when he has the time to process it—wander off to do something else. Hardwon, however, gets a faint distance in his gaze, turns into a fucking bat, and flutters off. That is also something that will be revisited later. When he can muster the energy to pursue that line of thinking.

Beverly sobs for a long time, until his voice is scrubbed raw. Then, when he is out of tears, he begins to talk, to apologize. “My birthday was last week,” he says, like he should be sorry about that. Like he should be apologetic about being on _another fucking plane of existence_ for his birthday instead of here, with him. “It sucked _hard_.”

“Yeah?”

“Found out my dad is...is _as good as dead_. I—,” he hiccups hard, body wracking with the motion, “—I have to tell my _mom_ he’s gone.”

Is it kindness that motivates what he says next, or selfishness? Either way, Erlin finds his mouth moving as he says, “You don’t _have_ to talk about that right now. Why don’t you tell me about your adventures? You look like you’ve been through the wringer. Plus,” he says with a hint of the younger shyness of a boy who didn’t watch his city burn, “I can redo your paint and catch you up on what’s been going on _here_.”

Bev nods and that is _enough_. The nasty, selfish monster inside of him hums, satisfied, and curls in on itself. And they talk. And they stargaze.

And he finds new scars to trace, new patterns on Bev’s skin, and commits them to memory. He maps out the new man before him and wonders if he, too, has changed like Beverly has.

And he wonders if he will ever be able to protect Bev the way he wants to—selfishly and without abandon.

* * *

_I traced a map upon your skin_  
_Inkblots now mar my pristine work_  
_I retrace steps I took before_  
_And wonder if you map me too_  
_Am I a world worth exploring?_  
_A landscape that demands a lark?_  
_Or am I just a passing place_  
_And you and yours a wandering sort?_


End file.
